


fragile little flame

by biblionerd07



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Closeted Character, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're happy together, even if "together" is more of an abstract idea than a physical reality most of the time, but he can't help but wish everything wasn't two steps forward, one step back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fragile little flame

“Come on, Bits!” Lardo calls. “It’s starting!”

Eric squeaks a little. “Betsy’s not done with my First Game pie yet!”

“It’s Jack!” Chowder exclaims. “Bitty, hurry, Jack’s on the TV!”

Eric frets. Betsy’s back to being extra delicate the last few days, and his pie is currently in the anxious zone between “not quite done” and “perfectly golden brown.” One prima donna oven tantrum and he’ll have a burnt crust.

“Jack!” Holster keeps yelling. “Jack Zimmermann!”

Dex comes into the kitchen and pushes Eric toward the door. “I’ll handle Betsy,” he promises. Eric hesitates for another second. Dex has some kind of magic that he wields over Betsy to make her behave, but he usually works this magic when Eric does not currently have a pie baking. But then he hears Shitty say,

“Did Jack style his hair?”

All Eric’s resolve goes straight out the window and he skids out of the kitchen into the living room. He looks first at the TV. Jack’s hair looks exactly the same way it always does, and everyone is laughing at him.

“I love ya, Bits.” Shitty toasts him with a beer. He’d driven over from Cambridge—his compromise to his family for not going to Harvard Business School was to go to Harvard Law School, although he spends more time studying in Norris than his own library—specifically to watch the first game with them.

“Well, now, that wasn’t very nice,” Eric scolds distractedly. Jack’s hair looks exactly the same way it always does, which is great. Jack’s face looks great. Jack looks great. Eric sighs a little and Lardo laughs at him. He sticks his tongue out at her.

“Dex, is my pie still baking?” He asks, eyes on Jack as the team files into the room for a pre-game press conference. He looks nervous and Eric fights the urge to murmur, _bless his heart_. His mother would absolutely say it, especially for Jack. Mama Bittle loves Jack something fierce. When Eric came out to her and Coach (which ended up being somewhat of a non-event; they both hugged him, though Coach was a little awkward about it, and later Eric found a page bookmarked on his mama’s computer titled “How to React When Your Child Comes Out”, so he figures they probably saw it coming for a while), he hadn’t said anything about his feelings for Jack, but he’s pretty sure she knows anyway.

“I took it out,” Dex assures him, although that news isn’t necessarily reassuring. Eric bounces on the balls of his feet for one second before hurrying into the kitchen. He’s just going to check on the pie. He just needs to see if Dex—oh, the crust is perfect.

“Dex, what would I do without you?” Eric praises, turning around and running back to the living room. He never even came to a complete stop in the kitchen. Ransom scoots close to Holster to make room for Eric, and he squeezes in.

Shitty’s graduation present to Eric was a new couch for the Haus. (He’d ignored Eric’s protestations that the person graduating was supposed to _receive_ graduation gifts, not give them.) Well, it’s new to the Haus. It could never be mistaken for new in general. It’s a hideous floral, it tilts downward toward the right side because one leg’s been snapped off, and it creaks ominously when, as now, four hockey players and a manger squeeze onto it, but it has no suspicious stains and doesn’t smell like a dumpster. Plus the seat covers come off so they can be washed.

Eric knows the names of every other member of the Providence Falconers, but he gets annoyed when the camera zooms in on any of them so he can’t see Jack anymore. The reporters ask typical questions; how the captain feels about the new team, how practices have been going, who’s going to be starting.

But then they set in on Jack.

“Zimmermann, why did you choose to stay in the States instead of honoring your home country?”

“Are you nervous for the eventual matchup against your old friend Kent Parson?”

“Will your father be coming to your games?”

“Do you think you’ll be able to handle the pressure of an NHL career without another breakdown?”

They don’t even pause to let him answer before firing off more questions. Jack winces against the flash of cameras. His hands are visibly shaking before he pulls them under the table. Eric wants to catch a bus to New York right then. Georgia will take care of those reporters, probably, but she can’t do anything right now.

“Vultures,” Lardo spits.

“What kind of asshole questions are those?” Holster agrees.

Jack takes a deep breath and holds it. Eric can feel the phantom tap of his fingers against Eric’s thumb as he counts the seconds before letting the breath out slowly. Jack squares his shoulders and sits up straighter.

“I’m here to play hockey,” he says firmly. “I’m going to focus on hockey and play my best game, no matter what else is going on around me.”

He leans back in his chair, away from the mic, and doesn’t say anything else. His eyes only dart around the room once before they settle again, straight ahead, and his head stays up high instead of drooping to avoid everyone’s stares.

“Fucking beaut,” Shitty breathes. “I’m so proud I honestly might cry right now.”

Lardo, sitting more in his lap than on the couch, plucks his beer out of his hands. “The game hasn’t even started. No crying until he scores.”

“They shouldn’t be asking if he’s going to have another breakdown!” Chowder bursts out angrily. “Do they think that makes anything easier for him?”

“They don’t care about making things easier for him,” Ransom points out. “Those assholes probably want him to freak out so they have a story.”

“Not cool at all,” Nursey pipes up.

Eric doesn’t say anything. Lardo pokes him in the ribs with her foot, but gently, and it’s not a prompting to speak but a sign of support. He smiles at her and gets up as the program cuts to a commercial.

“Well, let’s cut that pie, eh?” His eyes go wide as the _eh_ slips out. He’s never going to live this down.

“We heard that, Bitty!” Holster howls.

“My broest Bittle, where ever could you have picked up such a word?” Shitty grins, wide and smug, and Eric can feel a little blush heating up his cheeks.

“I hate all y’all,” he grumbles, heading into the kitchen. “How’s my girl?” He asks Dex. Dex shrugs.

“Still limping along like always,” he reports. Eric pats his arm.

“You get the first slice of pie,” he promises. Dex fist pumps.

The pie gets passed around, along with more beer, as both teams start their warmups. Eric watches the players on the other team for a little while, sizing up the defensemen who are undoubtedly going to do their best to check Jack as hard as they can, but he can’t help himself from focusing on Jack.

The camera isn’t focusing on anyone in particular, so Jack’s little more than a blur against the ice, not even his number visible, but Eric knows which one he is. Jack is a real sight to behold on the ice, even just warming up; he’s so strong and confident and relaxed, even though Eric knows he’s been an anxious mess for the last three days leading up to this.

It only takes half of the first period for Jack to score, though it’s his only goal for the whole night. There’s an awful lot of screaming and stomping and drinking in the Haus.

“Off-ice celly!” Holster yells.

“’Swawesome!” Chowder cheers.

Jack takes a hard check in the second period, hard enough that he staggers a little afterward, and Eric feels his heart rise up in his throat.

“Don’t hurt him!” He shrieks without meaning to. After Jack gets back into the game, Shitty can’t stop laughing at it.

“Don’t hurt him!” He mimics in a ridiculously high-pitched voice that in no way sounds similar to Eric.

Eric rolls his eyes. “Quit chirping me. I don’t want his season to end before it really starts.”

“And you’re still kinda scared of checking,” Nursey says. He gets a glare from Eric and a foot to the back of his head from Lardo.

“He’s not scared,” Lardo corrects. “He’s just wary.”

“He hasn’t even fainted once in practice this season,” Chowder says loyally, although it’s not really a great defense.

The Falconers end up winning 2-1, and Shitty can’t possibly drive home after all he’s had to drink during and after the game, so Lardo trundles him upstairs to his old room. In an unprecedented and slightly contested move, he’d given her his dibs. Jack gave his to Chowder, and Shitty had explained to Dex and Nursey he didn’t want to split them up. They know they’re getting Ransom and Holster’s attic next year, anyway, so they hadn’t minded too much. There had been grumbles from some other players, but no one really wanted to mess with Shitty. Or Lardo, for that matter.

Later, much later, Eric wakes up to his door cracking open. He hears a soft exhalation and smiles a little. He opens one eye in time to see Jack kicking off his jeans. Eric lifts up the covers so Jack can slip in.

Jack slides down so he can rest his head against Eric’s collarbone without a word, and Eric doesn’t speak. He cards his fingers through Jack’s hair while Jack clings to him and breathes. After a minute or two, Jack wriggles back up and puts his head on the pillow beside Eric’s.

“Hi,” he says, voice a little gritty the way it gets after he hasn’t spoken in a while. Eric leans in and kisses him, soft, and rejoices when he’s not met with a brick wall.

Sometimes when they kiss, he gets a second of Bad Bob’s son, the NHL player, tough and stoic and running after his father’s shadow, before it melts into Jack, history nerd who sometimes accidentally takes a video when he means to take a picture, who once baked four pies in one afternoon because he was determined to get the lattice right before Mama Bittle came to visit.

“Hi,” Eric answers quietly.

“You watch?” Jack asks. Eric rolls his eyes a little.

“Of course I did,” he chides. “I saved you a piece of First Game pie. It’s in the fridge. I had to fight those savages off to get it, too. Should’ve baked two.”

Jack smiles. “You only baked one pie?” He teases.

“I had a paper to write,” Eric admits. Jack laughs a little before his face gets somber again.

“Did you watch the press conference?”

“Yeah,” Eric says carefully. “They asked a lot of tough questions.”

Jack hums a little and makes a face. There’s another beat before he says, so quiet Eric almost misses it, “I didn’t like it.”

If it were anyone else but Jack, Eric might laugh at what an understatement that seems to be. As it is, he runs a hand up and down Jack’s arm soothingly. It’s a pretty big deal that Jack said anything at all about how he feels, instead of just giving a factual rundown in a flat voice.

“You handled it alright,” Eric praises him. Jack shrugs.

“Okay,” he says. It’s not an admission or denial, but Eric knows it’s all he’s going to get.

“You got your first NHL goal,” Eric points out, and he loves the way Jack’s lips curl up into a smile.

“That’s some pressure off,” he says. “Not chasing down that first one anymore.”

“Oh, the pressure’s off?” Eric raises an eyebrow. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Jack huffs. “I said _some_ pressure. I didn’t pretend I wasn’t still worried about anything.”

Eric just gives him a look. He knows there’s not even one part of Jack that’s relaxed a bit. “Are you hungry?” He asks instead of arguing about it.

“I ate on the bus.”

Eric narrows his eyes. “What did you eat on the bus?”

Jack winces a little and tightens his arms around Eric, so Eric knows whatever his answer’s going to be will not be satisfactory. “…A protein bar.”

“Oh, mercy, Jack! That’s not good enough.”

“It had twenty grams of protein,” Jack points out. “No, stay here,” he pleads, holding Eric in place as he starts to try to get up. “Just for a little longer? Please? And then you can force-feed me pie and whatever leftovers you saved me from dinner.”

“Excuse me, you conceited little man. Who says I saved you any dinner?” Eric tries to bluff. Jack just smiles and Eric rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine, yes. I made that honey mustard chicken you like and garlic mashed potatoes.”

Jack nuzzles his nose against Eric’s. “That’s almost changing my mind about waiting.”

“You can eat now,” Eric says. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll even come down to the kitchen with you so you don’t have to miss my handsome face one second.”

Jack scoffs. “Who says I miss your face?”

Eric hits Jack with his pillow until Jack’s gasping between peals of laughter, “Okay! Okay, Eric, I miss your face!” Eric hits him once more for good measure and then kisses his nose.

“Come on. I haven’t fed you in three weeks. It’s making me antsy.”

“You southerners,” Jack complains good-naturedly as he pulls open Eric’s dresser for a pair of sweatpants. He raises an eyebrow at the way they suspiciously don’t stop halfway down his calves or cling too-tight to his backside. “These are mine.”

“They _were_ yours,” Eric corrects, swatting Jack’s ass. “They’re my reward for my new booty.”

“I guess I don’t mind that too much,” Jack acquiesces with an exaggerated little leer that makes Eric roll his eyes and laugh.

Because Jack’s a weirdo who won’t eat dessert first, even though he’s a grown man who can do whatever he wants, Eric puts the plate he saved in the microwave and doesn’t even bother getting the pie out. But when he turns back around, Jack’s holding the pie tin and two forks.

“And what is this, Mr. Zimmermann?” Eric asks.

“Well, Bittle, it’s a pie,” Jack says, all exaggerated patience. “You put fruit inside a crust and bake it.”

“First of all, there is so much more to pie than that. And second, are you planning to eat that before you eat your dinner?”

Jack shrugs, ducking his head shyly. “If you want to share it with me.” He snakes an arm around Eric’s waist and pulls him into his side. Eric tips back his head and searches Jack’s face.

“You’re being awful sweet tonight.” He doesn’t mean to sound suspicious, but this is uncharacteristic of Jack. Even in the middle of the night, the Haus kitchen is a common space, and anyone could walk in at any time. It’s not like their relationship is a secret from their friends, but they’ve never really outright told anyone, and Jack is almost alarmingly opposed to PDA.

Jack buries his face in Eric’s hair. “I missed you.” It’s barely more than a rumble in Jack’s chest, but Eric’s breath catches a little when he hears it. It’s kind of silly—it’s only been a few weeks since they’ve seen each other last, but hearing Jack say it, and Jack saying it while standing there holding onto him, feels like a big deal.

But he does let go after that, and Eric wants to curse himself. If he hadn’t said anything, maybe Jack would still be kind of sweetly handsy. Eric’s not going to push it, though. Jack worries about everything enough without Eric adding in, “Hold my hand in public.” Sure, it would be nice once in a while, but it’s not like he doesn’t understand why that’s a pretty huge request from a professional athlete, and he’s very happy with what they have.

They eat quietly, and after he’s finished his mashed potatoes Jack notices it’s nearly 3 am. He cringes. “I shouldn’t have kept you up so late. You have practice and class tomorrow.”

“I can take a nap after practice. I don’t have class until ten. And besides,” Eric says, bumping his shoulder into Jack’s with a smile. “There’s no lunatic here dragging me to the rink at 4 am anymore. Unless you want to go to Faber in the morning,” Eric adds, halfway between hopeful and teasing.

Jack’s whole face lights up for a second, and then he grimaces and shakes his head. “It’s not a good idea.”

Eric nods, telling himself he’s not disappointed. It’s not uncommon for reporters from the Daily to be waiting at the rink to photograph practice. Jack can’t be seen hanging around Samwell too much without raising questions, even when he’s visiting his old team.

When Eric slips out of bed in the morning for practice, Jack’s eyes flutter drowsily and Eric leans over to kiss his eyelids. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers. “Say hi to Shitty—he’s sleeping it off in his room, but I don’t think he’ll be up for at least another hour.”

“Okay,” Jack murmurs, eyes closed, voice molasses-slow with sleep. “Have a good practice.”

Eric smiles and just looks at him for another minute before heading out. Just before he shuts the door behind him, Jack says, “Eat some breakfast before you go. Don’t forget the protein, eh?”

Eric can hear his sleepy chuckles all the way down the hall and shakes his head, grinning. Jack’s gone when he gets back from practice, but he left a doodle on one of Eric’s post-it pads—Eric sleeping, drool trailing out his mouth, with Señor Bunny under one arm. The caption’s just one word: _cute_.

  


Eric doesn’t get to see Jack as much as he’d hoped when Jack signed with Providence. They’re only forty minutes apart when traffic’s not bad, but that doesn’t mean much when Eric’s got school and practice and Jack’s on the road half the time. They make time to Skype or talk on the phone every night, but it’s not quite the same. Still, Eric does his best not to feel dissatisfied.

At least he gets to see Jack at all, on random weekends when they're both at home, in the Haus surrounded by their friends or snuggled up on Jack’s memory foam mattress in his apartment, the one with low counters and _two_ ovens. At least when Skype connects he gets to see Jack’s furrowed brow smooth out and a smile tug at his lips, at least he gets to listen not only to Jack’s rundown of practice (“—and I just _know_ if I put in a little more work I could get my shot percentage up, really, I think I’m just wasting too much time outside of practice; I know the weight room’s important but doing forty extra bicep curls isn’t as important as taking forty extra shots, don’t you think?”) but also all about some photos he took from his back porch or his mom’s birthday coming up; things Jack doesn’t open up about easily.

Eric hears the Skype tone and answers right away. He can’t help his immediate smile when he sees Jack, and he’s rewarded with Jack smiling, too. He doesn’t see how he could ever get tired of seeing the way Jack’s right eye crinkles a little, because his smile is crooked on that side, or the way Jack’s shoulders relax when he sees Eric.

“Hi,” Jack says. He’s almost shy at the start of most of their Skype calls, like he’s testing the waters in case Eric doesn’t really want to talk to him. It would be kind of adorable if it didn’t make Eric so sad, knowing what he does about how Jack views himself.

“Well hello there,” Eric answers with a grin. Jack’s shoulders slide down another inch and his smile ratchets up a notch.

“We have a home game this week.” Jack has a habit of telling Eric things he already knows, not because he thinks Eric doesn’t know but because Jack has further insight and he seems to think Eric will be able to read his mind once he states the obvious fact. That’s still not a skill Eric’s picked up, no matter how hard he tries.

“Honey, I’ve got your schedule color-coded on my wall,” Eric reminds him. Jack blushes a little at the endearment, even though Eric doesn’t necessarily use it in a romantic way and uses it on a lot of people, not just Jack.

“You can sit in the box,” Jack says.

“What box?”

“The club box,” Jack clarifies. “With the boys. I got—you and Lardo and Shitty and Rans and Holster and the frogs.” They’re not frogs anymore, but they’ll always be frogs to Jack.  
  
“The club box?” Eric echoes. “Isn’t that…a big deal?”

Jack shrugs. “I get some tickets each game.”

“You get eight per game?” Eric asks skeptically.

“I traded some guys. It’s normal. People have family coming to different games, you know.” Jack shrugs again, but his eyes are skipping around.

“So what happens when your parents want to come to a game you switched with someone? They have to sit in the regular crowd seats?”

Jack gives him a fond but exasperated look. “Bittle. My dad doesn’t sit in regular crowd seats at any games.”

Now it’s Eric’s turn to blush a little. “Oh. Yeah. Well, I know everyone’ll be excited. We’ve been planning it since your schedule came out. Chowder’s freaking out about who to root for, since y’all are playing the Sharks.”

“Is Shitty gonna bring that _marry me_ sign?” Jack asks, raising an eyebrow teasingly. Eric laughs and covers his face with his hands.

“That was mortifying. He tricked me on purpose to make me look stupid in front of you, I’m sure. And after I baked him an encouraging pie for his thesis!”

Jack’s laughing, that soft chuckle that makes Eric feel warm all over, and then he ducks his head a little. “Well, I think it—” He breaks off, licks his lips, and starts over. “The tickets will be waiting for you guys at the ticket office. You’ll just have to show your ID to get them.”

Eric’s dying to know what he’d been about to say, but he knows Jack well enough that changing the subject means he’s not going to talk about it. If he’d simply broken off and not said anything, Eric could have tried coaxing it out of him, but he can tell Jack wants to move on.

When Eric tells the others about their tickets, they’re predictably excited. Chowder still hasn’t solved his allegiance problem.

“I guess I shouldn’t wear a Sharks jersey in the Falconer’s club box…” He says sadly.

“We should paint ourselves,” Holster says, the gleam in his eye frighteningly similar to the one he gets during midterms. Ransom gasps.

“Bro! Perfect idea.”

“I don’t know if anyone would see it, since we’re up in the box,” Eric points out. Ransom and Holster deflate a little.

“But Shits is bringing Jack’s sign, right?” Ransom asks hopefully. “It’s big enough. People will be able to see.”

Eric gives him a stink eye. “Are you chirping me?”

“No chirping. Not at all,” Ransom says innocently.

“Not a bird in sight,” Holster adds.

Shitty, of course, brings the sign. Eric sighs a little, but he also laughs. He is, honestly, fairly giddy. It’s a little ridiculous; it’s not like it’s the first time he’s ever watched Jack play hockey. He tells himself to get a grip when his huge grin gets him a raised eyebrow from the girl at the ticket counter, whose nametag proclaims her to be _Cynthia_.

“Hello, Cynthia, I think I have some tickets here,” he says, trying to tramp down on his smile. “Eric Bittle.”

She clacks away at her computer. “There’s nothing for Eric Bittle.”

Eric’s heart lurches. “Are you sure?” He spells his last name.

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

Eric doesn’t know what to do. Did Jack forget? Lardo comes up close to the glass. “Could you try Larissa Duan, please?”

Cynthia exhales quietly, not quite a sigh. There’s a pretty long line behind them, and Eric feels bad for holding everything up. He twists his hands nervously. What if they can’t get in and Jack looks up to the box and doesn’t have anyone there watching him?

“I have eight tickets for Larissa Duan,” Cynthia says. “Can I see some I.D.?”

Eric can’t help the way his face scrunches up in confusion. Why would Jack put the tickets under Lardo’s name and not his? He told Eric about getting the tickets. Eric assumed that meant they’d be under his name. Not to mention he and Jack are…well, he and Jack. Shitty catches the look on Eric’s face and slings an arm around his shoulder.

“It’s probably habit, brah,” he points out. “Lard’s the manager, you know, so Jack’s used to going through her.”

“Yeah, it’s totally natural to fill in her name on forms,” Ransom pipes in. “Last week I accidentally put her down as my partner in my communicable diseases lab.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Eric agrees noncommittally.

“Is that Alex Stalock?” Chowder squeals. “Oh, wait, no, of course not. He’s probably warming up.”

“Yeah, probably,” Dex teases lightly. “Since they’re playing in half an hour.”

They get up to their seats, and Eric’s not so distracted that he doesn’t feel a little smug that his mini-pies in his bag didn’t get confiscated. The teams are already on the ice, warming up and chirping like all teams do, and Eric can’t help but smile when he sees Jack glance up at the box. They all see him looking, of course, and Ransom and Holster start pounding on the glass while Shitty holds the poster up.

Jack shakes his head, laughing a little, and his smile grows when he catches Eric’s eye. Eric forgets his earlier unease as he watches Jack push off on the ice. There’s nothing like watching Jack skate. For one thing, as a skater himself, Eric absolutely appreciates a man who knows his way around the ice. For another, one the ice, even with a crowd and a game imminent, Jack is lighter than off the ice and it makes Eric’s chest warm to see.

Jack plays phenomenally, his hat trick leading the Falconers to a 5-2 win. Chowder only accidentally cheers for the Sharks at the first goal. They hang around for a while after the game, waiting for Jack. When he comes out of the locker room, he has to stop and sign a bunch of autographs, face flushed, before he can get over to where they’re standing.

“There’s my boy!” Shitty yells, throwing an arm around Jack’s neck and dragging his head down for a noogie.

“How did I ever think I missed you?” Jack teases, smiling widely. Lardo gives him a hug, and Ransom and Holster pepper him with questions about the game. He doesn’t even look at Eric. After fifteen minutes of dissecting the game and Shitty moaning over Jack’s hands, one of his teammates pokes his head out the door of the locker room and calls,

“Zimmermann, coaches need you.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” Jack says. “Um, thanks for coming, guys.” He still hasn’t said a word to Eric.

“Thanks for the tickets,” Eric tries. Jack nods, not meeting his eyes.

“I gotta go. See ya.”

Eric tries not to act disappointed all the way back to the Haus. He tries to pretend he doesn’t notice the looks everyone else is throwing him or the way Lardo sits in the backseat beside him even though she has permanent shotgun privileges in Shitty’s car or the way Dex and Nursey decide to ride with Ransom and Holster to give him space. He tries to chalk Shitty’s little hug before they get in the car up to excitement over the game and Chowder’s sad eyes to the Sharks’ loss. He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes but starts a little when he feels someone leaning against him. He opens his eyes to see Lardo resting her head on his shoulder.

It makes his throat go tight. He knows Lardo is doing it to make him feel better, a sort of _I’m here for you_ without words, and it makes him want to cry. He doesn’t understand why everything with Jack has to be two steps forward, one step back.

Jack doesn’t call that night. Or the next. Eric bakes five pies and skips his American government class. He doesn’t usually skip class, but his nerves are shot. He could call Jack. He knows that. He knows he’s being kind of petulant. But Jack’s the one who acted embarrassed of him, who didn’t even look at him. It doesn’t seem too illogical to assume Jack doesn’t want to talk to him, either. He starts prepping another pie. They have a game and he needs to calm down, find his center, or he’ll be worthless on the ice.

Half an hour before he needs to leave for strategy, his phone rings. His stomach lurches. It’s Jack.

“Hello?” He answers warily.

“I know you’re mad at me,” Jack starts. “But I didn’t want to mess with your pregame. And I’ve called before your other games this season. So. You can hang up if you don’t want to talk to me. I just…thought I’d call just in case.”

Eric blows out a breath. Of course Jack is concerned with hockey. He won’t be responsible for ruining someone else’s rituals.

“I’m not mad at you,” Eric tells him.

“You’re not?” Jack sounds surprised.

“Well, maybe I am,” Eric admits. “I don’t know if I’m mad or not.”

Jack’s quiet for a minute. “Sorry.”

“Is this a specific sorry or a general Canadian sorry?” Eric chirps without even thinking about it. It’s just second nature with Jack.

“You’re chirping me, so I hope that means you’re not _too_ mad,” Jack says tentatively.

“I’m frustrated,” Eric says quietly.

“I know,” Jack answers, just as quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Neither of them talk for a little while, and then Eric sighs. “I have to go.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Can we…talk later?”

“Of course,” Eric agrees. “I’ll call you after the game.”  
  
“Okay. Have a good game. Watch out for number forty. He checked you hard last year and he’s been hooking a lot this season.”

Eric almost wishes he could hold a grudge, because he feels pretty justified, in this case, but he has to admit he feels better after talking to Jack, and he can actually focus during the strategy meeting. He doesn’t normally look around in the stands while they warm up, so he doesn’t notice what the whole team’s whispering about until just before the game starts. He’s taking a slug of water when Lardo elbows him.

“Look at Shits,” she commands. Eric turns around, searching for that familiar flow in the crowd, and sees him waving. And next to him is… _Jack_. He’s got a baseball cap pulled low over his face, hoping not to attract too much attention, but Eric feels little butterflies swarm in his stomach at the sight.

Their eyes meet and Jack smiles, a little shyly, and makes an apologetic face. Eric doesn’t even fight his answering smile, and Jack ducks his head a little. Eric forces himself to pay attention and not just spend the whole game mooning over Jack. If he didn’t make himself focus on other things, he could spend whole days just mooning over Jack, honestly.

It’s a close game, but they can’t quite pull off the win, even with Chowder playing his heart out and making some amazing saves. Eric hurries out of the locker room, but Faber is still swarming with people. The previous year’s national champs tend to come with a few fans. He looks around and can’t see Jack anywhere, but Lardo spots him looking around.

“You just missed him giving Chowder a post-game pep talk. He and Shitty went back to the Haus,” she tells him, a little smirk tugging at her lips. Eric makes a face at her.

“Don’t chirp me,” he warns.

“I’m not,” she protests. “Is it my fault you’re both adorably lovesick?”

“Okay, we’re done here,” he says, and her laughter follows him back into the locker room. He gathers his things and walks home. He absolutely does not _scurry_ , no matter what Ransom and Holster say.

Jack and Shitty are cuddling on the couch when Eric walks in, Jack’s face creased in annoyance and Shitty sprawled over him stripped down his boxers looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Eric can’t help but burst out laughing and whips out his phone for a picture.

“Oh, goodness, I missed this,” he says. Jack shoves Shitty away.

“One more snuggle?” Shitty asks, working up a fake pout.

“I told you only until Bittle got here,” Jack warns, but he lets Shitty rub his mustache against his cheek with only minimal grimacing.

“Alright, fine, go up to Bitty’s room and fuck, I get it,” Shitty grouses.

“B. Shitty Knight!” Eric scolds, cheeks burning. Jack coughs awkwardly.

“Are you going to try to tell me you two _aren’t_ fucking?” Shitty challenges. Eric points a finger at him menacingly and he and Jack go upstairs. “You never denied anything!” Shitty yells after them.

“Hi,” Jack says once they’re in Eric’s room with the door closed.

“Hi,” Eric responds, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. He leans against his closed door while Jack stands in the middle of the room.

“Sorry about the game,” Jack says. “I mean—well, I’m sorry you guys didn’t win tonight, but I also mean, um, my game.”

“I know,” Eric murmurs, charmed as always by Jack’s awkwardness. He bites his lip and eyeballs his feet. “You didn’t even look at me,” he says, voice small.

Jack sighs. “I couldn’t,” he tells Eric. “If I did…everyone would know.”

“You think people will know about us just because you look at me?” Eric snorts. “Does everyone think you’re sleeping with Shitty, then?”

“No, I mean…” Jack sighs again. “If I looked at you, then—well. Eric.” Jack blows out a breath, frustrated with himself. He blushes his way through the next sentence. “When I look at you it’s really obvious how I feel.”

Eric looks up quickly, takes in the tense set of Jack’s shoulders and the way he can’t meet Eric’s eyes. “Really?” Eric asks, not caring how breathless he sounds.

Jack shrugs, smiling ruefully. “Can’t really help it.”

Eric can feel his own cheeks heating up. “Oh,” he finally says.

“And I’m sorry…” Jack shakes his head. “I’m sorry I can’t. Let anyone know, I mean. I’m sorry I’m so…” He trails off and waves a hand around. “I know I freak out about everything and I’m not easy to be, um, together with.” He winces a little. “I’m not making any sense. I’m sorry I’m so me, I guess.”

And it’s not like Eric can just let that stand. He crosses the room to where Jack’s hovering by his bed and slips his arms around Jack’s waist. Jack exhales softly and presses his cheek against the top of Eric’s head.

“I happen to like you, Jack Zimmermann,” Eric reminds him. “So you don’t need to be sorry for being you.”

“But I _am_ really…I don’t know. Um, awkward.”

“Well, I’m not arguing with you there,” Eric teases. Jack laughs a little and sits back on Eric’s bed, pulling Eric down with him. Eric gets prickly sometimes about sitting on other people’s laps, because it always casts a glaring spotlight on how tiny he is, but he doesn’t mind so much with Jack. It puts them at eye level, so Eric can make sure Jack doesn’t dodge his eyes.

Jack lets his forehead drop to Eric’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I can’t be out,” he murmurs against Eric’s shirt.

It would be a lie for Eric to say it doesn’t hurt a little, especially hearing Jack acknowledge it, because Eric _wants_. He wants so much. He wants to tell everyone, he wants to hold Jack’s hand whenever they’re together, he wants Jack to not have to evade questions about if he’s single and he wants to stop seeing articles speculating about which supermodel Jack’s dating just because they were in the same room once.

But it’s no small consideration, not for anyone and especially for Jack, who already has so much pressure to deal with and enough anxiety over just plain old hockey. Eric runs his fingers through Jack’s hair.

“It’s okay,” he says, and it’s not really a lie but it’s not really the truth. It’s not okay that it would be such a big deal, maybe even dangerous, for Jack to come out. But it’s not Jack’s fault, and it isn’t Jack Eric’s mad at.

“The thing is.” Jack stops and swallows hard. “Once everyone finds out, everything changes. And I mean—some of it would be good. You know, the good stuff, like…like talking about you, and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Eric agrees, teasing a little. Jack huffs a little laugh before getting serious again.

“But it gets bad, too,” Jack goes on, voice softer now. “Not just because we’re both guys. It’s even bad for guys with girlfriends or wives. It’s just so…” He sighs. “People want to know about me. Even more than a lot of the other guys. Because of my dad and because of the overdose. And they’d come after you if they knew. I don’t want…”

“I get it,” Eric assures him.

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t think you do, Eric.” His voice is gentle. “Once the whole world knows, there’s just so much _pressure_. And people butting in and saying things to try to make you second-guess and worry about everything. And it all gets so hard.” He pulls back and looks Eric in the eye. “With…with Parse,” he says slowly. “No one even knew for sure. But they all kinda knew. And that was bad enough. People would make these snide comments, make jokes about it, and it just sorta. Festered.”

Eric searches Jack’s face. They don’t talk about Parse. _Jack_ doesn’t talk about Parse. Eric knows the bare bones of it all, and Jack tries, every once in a while, to give more details, but it’s a touchy subject for both of them.

“I don’t want that to happen,” Jack whispers. “You’re—you’re my secret good thing, you know? They can know all about my overdose and the pills and my dad and ask whatever questions they want and try to make me feel bad. But I’ve got you.”

Eric’s throat feels tight. Jack doesn’t talk about his emotions a lot, but when he does, he gets incredibly heartfelt. He’s always harping on Jack about not putting himself down, but it’s almost hard for Eric to believe he’s worth all this _feeling_ Jack’s confessing.

“You’ve got me,” Eric agrees. He hugs Jack tight, pressing his face into Jack’s neck and pressing a kiss there to make Jack shiver a little. Then he pulls back a little, peeks at Jack’s face, nerves bubbling as he says his piece. “But Jack? I…I can wait. But I can’t wait forever.”

“I know,” Jack says quickly, getting what Eric means right away. “No, I know. And I don’t mean—I won’t try to do that to you. I promise. I don’t _want_ to keep it a secret, either, you know. I want to tell everybody. Someday. Just not yet. My hockey’s gotta speak for itself first.” Jack’s determined to make his hockey prove so much. His hockey already has to prove his worth because of his last name, and it has to prove that he’s not a has-been because of the time he took off, and it has to prove that he’s still clean, and now he’s adding this. But Eric gets what he means.

Eric smiles at him and is rewarded with a smile back. He kisses Jack, his hands on Jack’s waist, and smiles into it. “Alright,” he says. “Someday. For now I’ll keep being your secret good thing.”

Jack gets that look on his face that means he’s going to make a joke. “I heard that in a Beyoncé song, right?”

Eric gives him a disappointed look, totally taking the bait. “You have _not_ been studying our queen at all, have you?”

Jack laughs, not just a little huff of air but an actual laugh, a happy sound Eric doesn’t hear nearly enough. “Guess you’ll have to play teacher.”

Eric snorts. “Mr. Zimmermann, I did not figure you one to be into role-play. Well, unless it was hockey related,” he amends.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You want some hockey role-play, eh?” He falls back, a little smirk on his face, so he’s lying on Eric’s bed and Eric’s straddling his hips.

Eric laughs at him. “I do not see how this is hockey related.”

“Oh, come on, Bitty,” Jack uses his sing-song voice that means he’s feeling happy. “How ‘bout some checking practice?” He wiggles his hips under Eric, and that is, admittedly, a little distracting.

“Shouldn’t we be standing for checking practice?” Eric murmurs, leaning down to catch Jack’s lips.

“Adapt,” Jack breathes into his mouth.

Eric hums, letting the kiss get deeper, before pulling back and digging his fingers into the ticklish spot on Jack’s ribs. Jack screeches and laughs out loud the way he almost never does, and Eric thinks he can appreciate keeping some things hidden from the rest of the world.

Even if Jack lets the secret slip a little the next day by smiling around at the team gathered in the Haus and admitting, “I missed y’all.” The chirps don’t stop for the whole rest of the day, but Jack’s face tells Eric he doesn’t really mind all that much.


End file.
